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UNITED STATES OF AMEEICA. 



THE THANKLESS MUSE 



BY 



HENRY A. BEERS 



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BOSTON AND NEW YORK 
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY 

1885 






Copyright, 1878 and 1885, 
By henry a. beers. 



PREFATORY NOTE. 



This volume includes, with a number of new 
poems, a selection from a book of verses published 
in 1878, and entitled " Odds and Ends." Half of 
that edition — of five hundred copies — was con- 
sumed by the public; the other half much more 
rapidly by the fire which burned Messrs. Hough- 
,ton, Mifflin & Co/s Boston store in 1879. 



CONTENTS. 

^_ 

PAGB 

The Thankless Muse 7 

Spirit Lake , . 8 

Water Lilies at Sunset 11 

Bumble Bee 13 

The Old City 15 

As You Like It 17 

Between the Flowers 20 

Beaver Pond Meadow 24 

Narcissus 28 

On a Miniature 32 

Katy Did 34 

Im Schwarzwald 36 

VlTTORIA CoLONNA 38 

Won • • • 39 

Sonnets : 

Waiting for Winter 41 

Tb Uav 42 

The Singer of One Song 43 

Amethysts 44 

Posthumous 46 

Carcamon 48 

Psyche 51 

sursum corda 52 

The Rising of the Curtain 54 



vi CONTENTS. 

PAGB 

The Ideas of the Pure Reason .... 58 

To Imogen at the Harp 60 

EccE IN Deserto 64 

Hugh Latimer 67 

Jeanne D'Arc . 68 

The Last of his People 74 

COLLEGE RIMES. 

The Darke Ladye 95 

Ye Laye of ye Woodpeckore 98 

A Merry Ballad of Three Sophomores and a 

Toll-Woman 103 

A Fish Story . . . . . . . .108 

Lost Letters of the Greek Alphabet . .110 

A Holiday Eclogue 112 

Ad Iulum Antonium 115 

High Island 119 

Lotus Eating 121 

The Mermaid's Glass 123 

A Memory 128 

Presentation Day, 1868 130 

Ivy Ode, 1S69 131 

The New Yale 132 



THE THANKLESS MUSE. 

The muses ring my bell and run away. 

I spy you, rogues, behind the evergreen : 
Vou, wanton Thalia, romper in the hay ; 

And you, Terpsichore, you long-legged quean. 
When I was young you used to come and stay, 

But, now that I grow older, 't is well seen 
What tricks ye put upon me. Well-a-day ! 

How many a summer evening have ye been 
Sitting about my door-step, fain to sing 

And tell old tales, while through the fragrant 
dark 

Burned the large planets, throbbed the brooding 
sound 
Of crickets and the tree-toads' ceaseless ring ; 

And in the meads the fire-fly lit her spark 

Where from my threshold sank the vale profound. 



SPIRIT LAKE. 

It lies among the western hills 

In purple distance far away, 
Fed by the gush of mountain rills 

Within the portals of the day. 

Basking in summer stillness deep, 
Among the dim blue hills it gleams 

Forever in a charmed sleep. 

Lulled by the flow of sounding streams, 

At evening on the dusky wold 

When winds from out the sunset blow, 

And in the west the waves of gold 
Suffuse the sky with liquid glow; 

W^hile in the wide extended blush 
I mark the disk of one bright star, 

Tinged with a faint unearthly flush 
It shines like Heaven's gate ajar. 



SPIRIT LAKE, < 

And when I in the midnight wake 

And through my windows see the moon, 

And hear the gusty curtain shake 

And the low summer night wind's tune; 

That lonely lake my spirit laves 

As in a vague and wandering dream, 

And, listening to the wash of waves, 
Far on the middle mere I seem. 

I see the moon-bathed waters wide; 

I hear the dip of spectral oars. 
Strange echoes on the mountain side. 

Uncertain whispers on the shores. 

But on thy margin, haunted pool, 

Enchantment holds her wizard throne : 

Above thy spell-bound surface cool 
A mystic silence broods alone. 

Across thy bosom glides no sail; 

No voice of man disturbs thy sleep ; 
Nor ever comes intruding gale 

To stir thy tranquil water deep. 

The traveler on the lonely hill 

When dim-eyed twilight gathers round 



lO SPIRIT LAKE. 

And the brown air is moist and still, 
Hears through the dusk a solemn sound, 

As of the ringing of sweet bells 

Within the distant mountain's breast, 

And oft on rainless nights he tells 
Of lightning flashes in the west. 

The wild deer from the forest glade 

Are gone ; but still their ghosts may slake 

Their thirst, where none e'er dips the blade 
In thy dark wave, O Spirit Lake. 



WATER LILIES AT SUNSET. 

Mine eyes have seen when once at sunset hour 
White lily flocks that edged a lonely lake 
All rose and sank upon the lifting swell 
That swayed their long steins lazily, and lapped 
Their floating pads and stirred among the leaves. 
And when the sun from western gates of day 
Poured colored flames, they, kissed to ruddy shame, 
So blushed through snowy petals, that they glowed 
Like roses morning-blown in dewy bowers. 
When garden-walks lie dark with early shade. 
That so their perfumed chalices were brimmed 
With liquid glory till they overflowed 
And spilled rich lights and purple shadows out, 
That splashed the pool with gold, and stained its 

waves 
In tints of violet and ruby blooms. 
But when the flashing gem that lit the day 
Dropped in its far blue casket of the hills, 
The rainbow paintings faded from the mere, 
The wine-dark shades grew black, the gilding 

dimmed, 



12 WATER LILIES AT SUNSET 

While paling slow through tender amber hues, 
The crimsoned lilies blanched to coldest white, 
And wanly shivered in the evening breeze. 
When twilight closed — when earliest dew-drops 

fell 
All frosty-chill deep down their golden hearts, 
They shrank at that still touch, as maidens shrink, 
When love's first footstep frights wdth sweet alarms 
The untrod wildness of their virgin breasts; 
Then shut their ivory cups, and dipping low 
Their folded beauties in the gloomy wave. 
They nodded drowsily and heaved in sleep. 
But sweeter far than summer dreams at daw^n, 
Their mingled breaths from out the darkness stole, 
Across the silent lake, the winding shores, 
The shadowy hills that rose in lawny slopes. 
The marsh among whose reeds the wild fowl 

screamed, 
And dusky woodlands where the night came down. 



BUMBLE BEE. 

As I lay yonder in tall grass 

A drunken bumble-bee went past 

Delirious with honey toddy. 

The golden sash about his body 

Could scarce keep in his swollen belly 

Distent with honey-suckle jelly. 

Rose liquor and the sweet pea wine 

Had filled his soul with song divine ; 

Deep had he drunk the warm night through: 

His hair}^ thighs were wet with dew. 

Full many an antic he had played 

While the world went round through sleep and 

shade. 
Oft had he lit with thirsty lip 
Some flower-cup's nectared sweets to sip, 
When on smooth petals he would slip 
Or over tangled stamens trip, 
And headlong in the pollen rolled, 
Crawl out quite dusted o'er with gold. 
Or else his heavy feet would stumble 



14 BUMBLE BEE, 

Against some bud and down he 'd tumble 
Amongst the grass ; there lie and grumble 
In low, soft bass — poor maudlin bumble! 
With tipsy hum on sleepy wing 
He buzzed a glee — a bacchic thing 
Which, wandering strangely in the moon, 
He learned from grigs that sing in June, 
Unknown to sober bees who dwell 
Through the dark hours in waxen cell. 
When south wind floated him away 
The music of the summer day 
Lost something: sure it was a pain 
To miss that dainty star-light strain. 



THE OLD CITY. 

Ancient city, down thy street 
Minstrels make their music sweet ; 
Sound of bells is on the air, 
Fountains sing in every square, 
Where, from dawn to shut of day, 
Maidens walk and children play ; 
And at night, \vhen all are gone. 
The waters in the dark sing on. 
Till the moonrise and the breeze 
Whiten the horse-chestnut trees. 
Cool thou liest, leisured, slow. 
On the plains of long ago, 
All unvexed of fretful trades 
Through thy rich and dim arcades, 
Overlooking lands below 
Terraced to thy green plateau. 

Dear old city, it is long 
Since I heard thy minstrels' song, 
Since I heard thy church-bells deep, 
Since I watched thy fountains leap. 



1 6 THE OLD CITY, 

Yet, whichever way I turn, 
Still I see the sunset burn 
At the ending of the street, 
Where the chestnut branches meet ; 
Where, between the gay bazaars, 
Maidens walk with eyes like stars, 
And the slippered merchants go 
On the pavements to and fro. 
Upland winds blow through my sleep, 
Maonrise glimmers, waters leap. 
Till, awaking, thou dost seem 
Like a city of a dream, — 
Like a city of the air, 
Builded high, aloof and fair, — 
Such as childhood used to know 
On the plains of long ago. 



AS YOU LIKE IT. 

Here while I read the light forsakes the pane; 

Metempsychosis of the twilight gray — 
Into green aisles of Epping or Ardenne 

The level lines of print stretch far away. 

The book-leaves whisper like the forest-leaves; 

A smell of ancient woods, a breeze of mom, 
A breath of violets from the mossy paths, 

And hark ! the voice of hounds — the royal horn, 

Which, muffled in the ferny coverts deep, 

Utters the three sweet notes that sound recall ; 

As, riding two by two between the oaks, 
Come on the paladins and ladies all. 

The court will rest from chase in this smooth glade 
That slopes to meet yon little rushy stream, 

Where in the shallows nod the arrow-heads, 
And the blue flower-de-luce's banners gleam. 



l8 AS YOU LIKE IT. 

The gamekeepers are coupling of the hounds; 

The pages hang bright scarfs upon the boughs ; 
The new-slain quarry lies upon the turf 

Whereon but now he with the herd did browse. 

The silk pavilion shines among the trees ; 

The mighty pasties and the flagons strong 
Give cheer to the dear heart of many a knight, 

And many a dame whose beauty lives in song. 

Meanwhile a staging improvised and rude 
Rises, whereon the masquers and the mines 

Play for their sport a pleasant interlude. 
Fantastic, gallant, pointing at the times. 

Their green-room is the wide midsummer wood ; 

Down some far-winding gallery the deer — 
The dappled dead-head of that sylvan show — 

Starts as the distant ranting strikes his ear. 

They use no traverses nor painted screen 
To help along their naked, out-door wit: 

(Only the forest lends its leafy scene) 
Yet wonderfully well they please the pit. 

The plaudits echo through the wide parquet 
Where the fair audience upon the grass, 



AS YOU LIKE IT, 



19 



Each knight beside his lady-love, is set, 
While overhead the merry winds do pass. 

The little river murmurs in its reeds, 

And somewhere in the verdurous solitude 

The wood-thrush drops a cool contralto note, 
An orchestra well-tuned unto their mood. 

As runs the play so runs the afternoon j 
The curtain and the sun fall side by side ; 

The epilogue is spoke, the twilight come; 

Then homeward through the darkening glades 
they ride. 



BETWEEN THE FLOWERS. 

An open door and door-steps wide, 

With pillared vines on either side, 

And terraced flowers, stair over stair, 

Standing in pots of earthenware 

Where stiff processions filed around — 

Black on the smooth, sienna ground. 

Tubers and bulbs now blossomed there 

Which, in the moisty hot-house air. 

Lay winter long in patient rows. 

Glassed snugly in from Christmas snows : 

Tuberoses, with white, waxy gems 

In bunches on their reed-like stems; 

Their fragrance forced by art too soon 

To mingle with the sweets of June. 

(So breathes the thin blue smoke, that steals 

From ashes of the gilt pastilles. 

Burnt slowly, as the brazier swings. 

In dim saloons of eastern kings.) 

I saw the calla's arching cup 

With yellow spadix standing up, 



BETWEEN THE FLOWERS. 21 

Its liquid scents to stir and mix — 

The goldenest of toddy-sticks j 

Roses and purple fuchsia drops ; 

Camellias, which the gardener crops 

To make the sickening wreaths that life 

On coffins when our loved ones die. 

These all and many more were there; 

Monsters and grandifloras rare, 

With tropical broad leaves, grown rank 

Drinking the waters of the tank 

Wherein the lotus-lilies bathe ; 

All curious forms of spur and spathe, 

Pitcher and sac and cactus-thorn, 

There in the fresh New England morn. 

But where the sun came colored through 

Translucent petals wet with dew, 

The interspace was carpeted 

With oriel lights and nodes of red, 

Orange and blue and violet. 

That wove strange figures, as they met, 

Of airier tissue, brighter blooms 

Than tumble from the Persian looms. 

So at the pontiffs' feasts, they tell. 

From the board's edge the goblet fell, 

Spilled from its throat the purple tide 

And stained the pavement far and wide. 



t2 Between the flowers. 

Such steps wise Sheba trod upon 
Up to the throne of Solomon ; 
So bright the angel-crowded steep 
Which Israel's vision scaled in sleep. 
What one is she whose feet shall dare 
Tread that illuminated stair ? 
Like Sheba, queen ; like angels, fair ? 
Oh listen ! In the morning air 
The blossoms all are hanging still — 
The queen is standing on the sill. 
No Sheba she; her virgin zone 
Proclaims her royalty alone : 
(Such royalty the lions own.) 
Yet all too cheap the patterned stone 
That paves kings' palaces, to feel 
The pressure of her gaiter's heel. 
The girlish grace that lit her face 
Made sunshine in a dusky place — 
The old silk hood, demure and quaint, 
Wherein she seemed an altar-saint 
Fresh-tinted, though in setting old 
Of dingy carving and tarnished gold ; 
Her eyes, the candles in that shrine, 
Making Madonna's face to shine. 
Lingering I passed, but evermore 
Abide with me the open door. 



BETWEEN THE FLOWERS. 2^ 

The doorsteps wide, the flowers that stand 

In brilliant ranks on either hand, 

The two white pillars and the vine 

Of bitter-sweet and lush woodbine, 

And — from my weary paths as far 

As Sheba or the angels are — 

Between, upon the wooden sill, 

Thou, Queen of Hearts, art standing still. 



BEAVER POND MEADOW. 

Thou art my Dismal Swamp, my Everglades: 
Thou my Campagna, where the bison wades 
Through shallow, steaming pools, and the sick air 
Decays. Thou my Serbonian Bog art, where 
O'er leagues of mud, black vomit of the Nile, 
Crawls in the sun the myriad crocodile. 
Or thou my Cambridge or my Lincoln fen 
Shalt be — a lonely land where stilted men 
Stalking across the surface waters go, 
Casting long shadows, and the creaking, slow 
Canal-barge, laden with its marshy hay. 
Disturbs the stagnant ditches twice a day. 
Thou hast thy crocodiles : on rotten logs 
Afloat, the turtles swarm and bask: the frogs. 
When come the pale, cold twilights of the spring, 
Like distant sleigh-bells through the meadows ring. 
The school-boy comes on holidays to take 
The musk-rat in its hole, or kill the snake. 
Or fish for bull-heads in the pond at night. 
The hog-snout's swollen corpse, with belly white, 
I find upon the footway through the sedge, 



BEAVER POND MEADOW, 2$ 

Trodden by tramps along the water's edge. 
Not thine the breath of the salt marsh below 
Where, when the tide is out, the mowers go 
Shearing the oozy plain, that reeks with brine 
More tonic than the incense of the pine. 
Thou art the sink of all uncleanliness, 
A drain for slaughter-pens, a wilderness 
Of trenches, pockets, quagmires, bogs where rank 
The poison sumach grows, and in the tank 
The water standeth ever black and deep 
Greened o'er with scum : foul pottages, that steep 
And brew in that dark broth, at night distil 
Malarious fogs bringing the fever chill. 
Yet grislier horrors thy recesses hold : 
The murdered peddler's body five days old 
Among the yellow lily-pads was found 
In yonder pond : the new-born babe lay drowned 
And throttled on the bottom of this moat, 
Near where the negro hermit keeps his boat; 
Whose wigwam stands beside the swamp ; whose 

meals 
It furnishes, fat pouts and mud-spawned eels. 
Even so thou hast a kind of beauty, wild. 
Unwholesome — thou the suburb's outcast child, 
Behind whose grimy skin and matted hair 
Warm nature works and makes her creature fair. 
8 



26 BEAVER POND MEADOW. 

Summer has wrought a blue and silver border 

Of iris flags and flowers in triple order 

Of the white arrowhead round Beaver Pond, 

And o'er the milkweeds in the swamp beyond 

Tangled the dodder's amber-colored threads. 

In every fosse the bladderwort's bright heads 

Like orange helmets on the surface show. 

Richer surprises still thou hast : I know 

The ways that to thy penetralia lead, 

Where in black bogs the sundew's sticky bead 

Ensnares young insects, and that rosy lass, 

Sweet Arethusa, blushes in the grass. 

Once on a Sunday when the bells were still, 

Following the path under the sandy hill 

Through the old orchard and across the plank 

That bridges the dead stream, past many a rank 

Of cat-tails, midway in the swamp I found 

A small green mead of dry but spongy ground, 

Entrenched about on every side with sluices 

Full to the brim of thick lethean juices. 

The filterings of the marsh. With line and hook 

Two little French boys from the trenches took 

Frogs for their Sunday meal and gathered messes 

Of pungent salad from the water-cresses. 

A little isle of foreign soil it seemed. 

And listening to their outland talk, I dreamed 



BEAVER POND MEADOW. 2/ 

That yonder spire above the elm-tops calm 
Rose from the village chestnuts of La Balme. 
Yes, many a pretty secret hast thou shown 
To me, O Beaver Pond, walking alone 
On summer afternoons, while yet the swallow 
Skimmed o'er each flaggy plash and gravelly shal- 
low ; 
Or when September turned the swamps to gold 
And purple. But the year is growing old : 
The golden-rod is rusted, and the red 
That streaked October's frosty cheek is dead ; 
Only the sumach's garnet pompons make 
Procession through the melancholy brake. 
Lo ! even now the autumnal wind blows cool 
Over the rippled waters of thy pool, 
And red autumnal sunset colors brood 
Where I alone and all too late intrude. 



NARCISSUS. 

Where the black hemlock slants athwart the stream 
He came to bathe ; the sun's pursuing beam 
Laid a warm hand upon him, as he stood 
Naked, while noonday silence filled the wood. 
Holding the boughs overhead, with cautious foot 
He felt his way along the mossy root 
That edged the brimming pool ; then paused and 

dreamed. 
Half like a dryad of the tree he seemed, 
Half like the naiad of the stream below. 
Suspended there between the water's flow 
And the green tree-top world ; the love-sick air 
Coaxing with softest touch his body fair 
A little longer yet to be content 
Outside of its own crystal element. 
And he, still lingering at the brink, looked down 
And marked the sunshine fleck with gold the 

brown 
And sandy floor which paved that woodland pool. 
But then, within the shadows deep and cool 



NARCISSUS. 29 

Which the close hemlocks on the surface made, 

Two eyes met his yet darker than that shade 

And, shining through the watery foliage dim, 

Two white and slender arms reached up to him. 

"Comest thou again, now all the woods are still, 

Fair shape, nor even Echo from the hill 

Calls her Narcissus ? Would her voice were thine, 

Dear speechless image, and could answer mine ! 

Her I but hear and thee I may but see ; 

Yet, Echo, thou art happy unto me ; 

For though thyself art but a voice, sad maid, 

Thy love the substance is and my love shade. 

Alas ! for never may I kiss those dumb 

Sweet lips, nor ever hope to come 

Into that shadow-world that lies somewhere — 

Somewhere between the water and the air. 

Alas ! for never shall I clasp that form 

That mocks me yonder, seeming firm and warm ; 

But if I leap to its embrace, the cold 

And yielding flood is all my arms enfold. 

All creatures else, save only me, can share 

My beauties, be it but to stroke my hair. 

Or hold my hand in theirs, or hear me speak. 

The village wives will laugh and clap my cheek ; 

The forest nymphs will beg me for a kiss. 

To make me blush, or hide themselves by this 



30 NARCISSUS, 

Clear brook to see me bathe. But I must pine, 
Loving not me but this dear ghost of mine.'' 
Then, bending down the boughs, until they dipped 
Their broad green fronds, into the wave he slipped, 
And, floating breast-high, from the branches hung, 
His body with the current idly swung. 
And ever and anon he caught the gleam 
Of a white shoulder swimming in the stream, 
Pressed close to his, and two young eyes of black 
Under the dimpling surface answered back 
His own, just out of kissing distance : then 
The vain and passionate longing came again 
Still baffled, still renewed : he loosed his hold 
Upon the boughs and strove once more to fold 
To his embrace that fine unbodied shape; 
But the quick apparition made escape, 
And once again his empty arms took in 
Only the water and the shadows thin. 
Thus every day, when noon lay bright and hot 
On all the plains, there came to this cool spot, 
Under the hemlocks by the deepening brook, 
Narcissus, Phoebus' darling, there to look 
And pore upon his picture in the flood : 
Till once a peeping dryad of the wood. 
Tracking his steps along the slender path 
Which he between the tree trunks trodden hath, 



NARCISSUS, 31 

Misses the boy on whom her amorous eyes 
.Were wont to feed ; but where he stood she spies 
A new-made yellow flower, that still doth seem 
To woo his own pale reflex in the stream; 
Whom Phoebus kisses when the woods are still 
And only ceaseless Echo from the hill 
Unprompted cries Narcissus/ 



ON A MINIATURE. 

Thine old-world eyes — each one a violet 
Big as the baby rose that is thy mouth — 

Set me a dreaming. Have our eyes not met 
In childhood — in a garden of the South ? 

Thy lips are trembling with a song of France, 
My cousin, and thine eyes are dimly sweet ; 

'Wildered with reading in an old romance 
All afternoon upon the garden seat. 

The summer wind read with thee, and the bees 
That on the sunny pages loved to crawl : 

A skipping reader was the impatient breeze, 
And turned the leaves, but the slow bees read 
all. 

And now thy foot descends the terrace stair: 
I hear the rustle of thy silk attire ; 

I breathe the musky odors of thy hair 

And airs that from thy painted fan respire. 



ON A MINIATURE, 33 

Idly thou pausest in the shady walk, 

Thine ear attentive to the fountain's fall: 

Thou mark'st the flower-de-luce sway on her stalk, 
The speckled vergalieus ripening on the wall. 

Thou hast the feature of my mother's race, 
The gilded comb she wore, her smile, her eye : 

The blood that flushes softly in thy face 

Crawls through my veins beneath this northern 
sky. 

As one disherited, though next of kin, 
Who lingers at the barred ancestral gate, 

And sadly sees the happy heir within 

Stroll careless through his forfeited estate; 

Even so I watch thy southern eyes, Lisette, 
Lady of my lost paradise and heir 

Of summer days that were my birthright. Yet 
Beauty like thine makes usurpation fair. 



KATY DID. 

In a windy tree-top sitting, 

Singing at the fall of dew, 
Katy watched the bats a-fiitting, 

While the twilight's curtains drew 
Closer round her; till she only 

Saw the branches and the sky — 
Rocking late and rocking lonely, 
Anchored on the darkness high. 
And the song that she was singing. 
In the windy tree-tops swinging, 
Was under the treey under the tree 
The fox is digging a pit for me. 

When the early stars were sparkling 

Overhead, and down below 
Fireflies twinkled, through the darkling 

Thickets she heard footsteps go — 
Voice of her false lover speaking. 
Laughing to his sweetheart new : — 
" Half my heart for thee I 'm breaking : 
Did not Katy love me true ? " 
7 



KATY DID. 35 

Then no longer she was singing, 
But through all the wood kept ringing — 
Katy did, Katy did, Katy did love thee 
And the fox is digging a grave for me. 



IM SCHWARZWALD. 

The winter sunset, red upon the snow, 
Lights up the narrow way that I should go; 
Winding o'er bare white hilltops, whereon lie 
Dark churches and the holy evening sky. 
That path would lead me deep into the west, 
Even to the feet of her I love the best. 

But this scarce broken track in which I stand 
Runs east, up through the tan-woods' midnight 

land j 
Where now ithe newly risen moon doth throw 
The shadows of long stems across the snow. 
This path would take me to the Jager's Tree 
Where stands the Swabian girl and waits for me. 

Her eyes are blacker than the woods at night 
And witching as the moon's uncertain light; 
And there are tones in that low voice of hers 
Caught from the wind among the Schwarzwald firs, 
And from the Gutach's echoing waters, when 
Still evening listens in the Forsthaus glen. 



IM SCIIWARZWALD. i7 

I must — I must! Thou wilt forgive me, sweet; 
My heart flies west but eastward move my feet ; 
The mad moon brightens as the sunset dies, 
And yonder hexie draws me with her eyes. 
Ruck, ruck an meiiie grune Self she sings 
And with her arms the frozen trunk enrings, 

And lays upon its bark her little face. 
How canst thou be so dead in her embrace — 
So cold against her kisses, happy tree ? 
Thou hast no love beyond the western sea. 
Methinks that at the lightest touch of her 
Thy wooden trunk should tremble, thy boughs 
stir : 

But at the pressure of her tender form 
Thy inmost pith should feel her and grow warm : 
The torpid sap should race along the vein ; 
The resinous buds should swell, and once again 
Fresh needles shoot, as though the breeze of 

spring 
Already through the woods came whispering. 



VITTORIA COLONNA. 

A poet's daughter and a poet's bride, 

A poet's self thou art, — nay, more, far more : 

The moon thou art, that fiings a heart's wild tide 
In wordless music on fate's iron shore. 

Children he hath begot of thee, and songs : 

My love is barren as the desert sea. 
Salt weed it bears, and for a tongue it longs, 

But in its deeps are gold and pearl for thee. 

He hath his will of thee : in life, in death, 
I shall thy beggar be, and he thy king ; 

Yet, though a thousand trifles claim my breath, 
Of my one love for thee I may not sing. 

Leave off thy loving ! Is there nothing mine ? 

Rise up, fresh kissed, from off thy husband's 
knee; 
Fling wide the blind, and let thy hearth-fire shine 

One moment on the jealous, homeless sea. 



WON. 

At last I have thee safe ; 
Thou wilt no longer chafe 

Against the chain. 
Thou canst not, though thou would, 
Be aught but true and good 

Ever again. 

Yes, now thou art my wife ; 
The suit to win, the strife 

To keep, are o'er. 
The weakness of the flesh. 
The spirit's waywardness. 

Will vex no more. 

No more will anger harm 
Nor jealousy alarm. 

Now thou art mine. 
Thy other lovers all, 
Hearing that grim recall, 

The chase resign. 



40 WON. 

They do not greatly care 
If thou be foul or fair, 

Single or wed. 
To me they yield their claim 
On body, soul, and name, — 

Now thou art dead. 



WAITING FOR WINTER. 

What honey in the year's last flowers can hide, 
These little yellow butterflies may know : 
With falling leaves they waver to and fro, 

Or on the swinging tops of asters ride. 

But I am weary of the summer's pride 
And sick September's simulated show : 
Why do the colder winds delay to blow 

And bring the pleasant hours that we abide ; 

To curtained alcove and sweet household talks, 
Or sweeter silence by our flickering Lars, 

Returning late from autumn evening walks 
Upon the frosty hills, while reddening Mars 

Hangs low between the withered mullein stalks, 
And upward throngs the host of winter stars ? 



Tb Uav. 

The little creek which yesterday I saw 

Ooze through the sedges, and each brackish 
vein 

That sluiced the marsh, now filled and then 
again 
Sucked dry to glut the sea's unsated maw, 
All ebb and flow by the same rhythmic law 

That times the beat of the Atlantic main — 

They also fastened to the swift moon's train 
By unseen cords that no less strongly draw. 
So, poet, may thy life's small tributary 

Threading some bitter marsh, obscure, alone, 
Feel yet one pulse with the broad estuary 

That bears an emperor's fleets through half a 
zone : 
May wait upon the same high luminary 

And pitch its voice to the same ocean's tone. 



THE SINGER OF ONE SONG. 

He sang one song and died — no more but that : 
A single song and carelessly complete. 
He would not bind and thresh his chance-grown 
wheat, 
Nor bring his wild fruit to the common vat, 
To store the acid rinsings, thin and flat, 

Squeezed from the press or trodden under feet. 
A few slow beads, blood-red and honey-sweet. 
Oozed from the grape, which burst and spilled its 

fat. 
But Time, who soonest drops the heaviest things 
That weight his pack, will carry diamonds long. 
So through the poets' orchestra, which weaves 
One music from a thousand stops and strings. 
Pierces the note of that immortal song : — 
*^ High over all the lonely bugle grieves." 



AMETHYSTS. 

Not the green eaves of our young woods alone 
Shelter new violets, by the spring rains kissed ; 

In the hard quartz, by some old April sown, 
Blossoms Time's flower, the steadfast amethyst 

" Here 's pansies, they 're for thoughts " — weak 
thoughts though fair; 
June sees their opening, June their swift decay. 
But those stone bourgeons stand for thoughts 
more rare, 
Whose patient crystals colored day by day. 

Might I so cut my flowers within the rock, 
And prison there their sweet escaping breath ; 

Their petals then the winter's frost should mock. 
And only Time's slow chisel work their death. 

If out of those embedded purple blooms 

Were quarried cups to hold the purple wine, 

Greek drinkers thought the glorious, maddening 
fumes 
Were cooled with radiance of that gem divine. 



AMETHYSTS. 45 

Might I so wed the crystal and the grape, 
Passion's red heart and plastic Art's endeavor, 

Delirium should take on immortal shape. 

Dancing and blushing in strong rock forever. 



POSTHUMOUS. 

Put them in print? 
Make one more dint 
In the ages^ furrowed rock ? No, no ! 
Let his name and his verses go. 
These idle scraps, they would but wrong 
His memory, whom we honored long; 
And men would ask : *' Is this the best — 
Is this the whole his life expressed ? " 
Haply he had no care to tell 
To all the thoughts which flung their spell 
Around us when the night grew deep, 
Making it seem a loss to sleep. 
Exalting the low, ding}^ room 
To some high auditorium. 
And when we parted homeward, still 
They followed us beyond the hill. 
The heaven had brought new stars to sight, 
Opening the map of later night ; 
And the wide silence of the snow, 
Apd the dark whispers of the pines, 



POSTHUMOUS. 47 

And those keen fires that glittered slow 

Along the zodiac's wintry signs, 
Seemed witnesses and near of kin 
To the high dreams we held within. 

Yet what is left 
To us bereft, 
Save these remains. 
Which now the moth 
Will fret, or swifter fire consume ?' 
These inky stains 
On his table-cloth; 
These prints that decked his room; 
His throne, this ragged easy-chair ; 
This battered pipe, his councillor. 
This is the sum and inventory. 
No son he left to tell his story. 
No gold, no lands, no fame, no book. 
Yet one of us, his heirs, who took 
The impress of his brain and heart. 
May gain from Heaven the lucky art 
His untold meanings to impart 
In words that will not soon decay. 
Then gratefully will such one say: 
" This phrase, dear friend, perhaps, is mine ; 
The breath that gave it life was thine." 



CARQAMON. 

His steed was old, his armor worn, 
And he was old and worn and gray : 

The light that lit his patient eyes 
It shone from very far away. 

Through gay Provence he journeyed on; 

To one high quest his life was true, 
And so they called him Carfamon — 

The knight who seeketh the world through. 

A pansy blossomed on his shield j 
"A token His," the people say, 
" That still across, the world's wide field 
He seeks la dame de ses penseesP 

For somewhere on a painted wall. 

Or in the city's shifting crowd, 
Or looking from a casement tall. 

Or shaped of dream or evening cloud — 



CARCAMON. 49 

Forgotten when, forgotten where — 
Her face had filled his careless eye 

A moment ere he turned and passed. 
Nor knew it was his destiny. 

But ever in his dreams it came 
Divine and passionless and strong, 

A smile upon the imperial lips 

No lover's kiss had dared to wrong. 

He took his armor from the wall — 

Ah ! gone since then was many a day — 

He led his steed from out the stall 
And sought la dame de ses pe?isees. 

The ladies of the Troubadours 

Came riding through the chestnut grove 
" Sir Minstrel, string that lute of yours 
And sing us a gay song of love." 

"O ladies of the Troubadours, 

My lute has but a single string; 
Sirventes fit for paramours, 
My heart is not in tune to sing. 

"The flower that blooms upon my shield 
It has another soil and spring 



50 CARCAMON, 

Than that wherein the gaudy rose 
Of light Provence is blossoming. 

" The lady of my dreams doth hold 
Such royal state within my mind, 
No thought that comes unclad in gold 
To that high court may entrance find." 

So through the chestnut groves he passed, 
And through the land and far away; 

Nor know I whether in the world 
He found la dame de ses pensees. 

Only I know that in the South 

Long to the harp his tale was told; 

Sweet as new wine within the mouth 
The small, choice words and music old. 

To scorn the promise of the real ; 

To seek and seek and not to find ; 
Yet cherish still the fair ideal — 

It is thy fate, O restless Mind ! 



PSYCHE. 

At evening in the port she lay, 

A lifeless block with canvas furled; 

But silently at peep of day 

Spread her white wings and skimmed away 

And, rosy in the dawn's first ray, 

Sunk down behind the rounding world. 

So hast thou vanished from our side, 

Dear bark, that from some far, bright strand 

Anchored a while on life's dull tide ; 

Then, lifting spirit pinions wide, 

In Heaven's own orient glorified. 
Steered outward seeking Holy Land. 



SURSUM CORDA! 

Take courage, heart. Why dost thou faint and 
falter? 
Why is thy light turned darkness ere the noon ? 
The wind blows west, no clouds the heaven alter, 
Night comes not yet j with night, too, comes the 
moon. 

" Alas, alas ! the dewy morning weather, 
The tender light that on the meadows lay, 

When Youth and Hope and I set out together, — 
Light Youth, false Hope, that left me on the 
way ! '' 

Take courage yet ; thou art not unattended : 

See Love and Peace keep step on either hand. 
How green the vales ! The sky how blue ! How 

splendid ^ 

The strong white sunshine sleeps across the 
land! . 



SURSUM CORD A! 53 

" Alas . tne thrushes' song hath long had ending 
I heard at dawn among the pine woods cooL 

The brook is still, w^hose rocky stair descending, 
I drank at sunrise from each rosy pool." 

The noon is still ; the songs of dawn are over ; 

Yet turn not back to prove thy memories vain. 
The mist upon the hills canst thou recover, 

Or bring to eastern skies the bloom again ? 

But courage still ! Without return or swerving. 
Across the globe's huge shadow keep the track, 

Till, unperceived, the slow meridian's curving. 
That leads thee onward, yet shall lead thee back, 

To stand again with daybreak on the mountains, 
And, where the paths of night and morning meet, 

To drink once more of youth's forgotten fountains, 
When thou hast put the world between thy feet. 



THE RISING OF THE CURTAIN. 

We sit before the curtain, and we heed the pleasant 

bustle : 
The ushers hastening up the aisles, the fans' and 

programmes' rustle j 
The boy that cries librettos, and the soft, incessant 

sound 
Of talking and low laughter that buzzes all around. 

How very old the drop-scene looks ! A thousand 
times before 

I Ve seen that blue paint dashing on that red dis- 
temper shore ; 

The castle and the gicazzo sky, the very ilex-tree, — 

They have been there a thousand years, — a thou- 
sand more shall be. 

All our lives we have been waiting for that weary 

daub to rise ; 
We have peeped behind its edges, " as if we were 

God's spies ; '' 



THE RISING OF THE CURTAIN, 55 

We have listened for the signal ; yet still, as in our 

youth, 
The colored screen of matter hangs between us and 

the truth. 

When in my careless childhood I dwelt beside a 

wood, 
I tired of the clearing where my father's cabin 

stood ; 
And of the wild young forest paths that coaxed me 

to explore, 
Then dwindled down, or led me back to where I 

stood before. 

But through the woods before our door a wagon 

track went by, 
Above whose utmost western edge there hung an 

open sky ; 
And there it seemed to make a plunge, or break off 

suddenly. 
As though beneath that open sky it met the open 

sea. 

Oh, often have I fancied, in the sunset's dreamy 

glow, 
That mine eyes had caught the welter of the ocean 

waves below; 



$6 ' THE RISING OF THE CURTAIN, 

And the wind among the pine-tops, with its low 

and ceaseless roar, 
Was but an echo from the surf on that imagined 

shore. 

Alas ! as I grew older, I found that road led down 
To no more fair horizon than the squalid factory 

town : 
So all life's purple distances, when nearer them I 

came. 
Have played me still the same old cheat, — the 

same, the same, the same ! 

And when, O King, the heaven departeth as a 

scroll. 
Wilt thou once more the promise break thou madest 

to my soul ? 
Shall I see thy feasting presence thronged with 

baron, knight, and page ? 
Or will the curtain rise upon a dark and empty 

stage ? 

For lo, quick undulations across the canvas run ; 
The foot-lights brighten suddenly, the orchestra has 
done j 



THE RISING OF THE CURTAIN, 57 

And through the expectant silence rings loud the 

prompter's bell ; 
The curtain shakes, — it rises. Farewell, dull 

world, farewell ! , 



THE IDEAS OF THE PURE REASON. 

I SAW in dreams a constellation strange, 
Thwarting the night ; its big stars seemed to range 
Northward across the zenith, and to keep 
Calm footing along heaven's ridge-pole high, 
While round the pole the sullen Bear did creep 
And dizzily the wheeling spheres went by. 
They from their watch-towers in the topmost sky 
Looked down upon the rest. 
Nor eastward swerved nor west, 
Though Procyon's candle dipped below the verge, 
And the great twins of Leda 'gan decline 
Toward the horizon line, 
And prone Orion, sprawling headlong, urge 
His flight into the far Pacific surge. 

I heard a voice which said : '' Those wonders 

bright 
Are hung not on the hinges of the night ; 
But set to vaster harmonies, they run 
Straight on, and turn not with the turning sphere, 
Nor make an orbit about any sun. 



THE IDEAS OF THE PURE REASON. 59 

No glass can track the courses that they steer, 

By what dark paths they vanish and appear. 

The starry flocks that still 

Are climbing heaven's hill 

Will pasture westward down its sloping lawn ; 

But yon wild herd of planets, — who can say 

Through what far fields they stray, 

Around what focus their ellipse is drawn, 

Whose shining makes their transcendental dawn ? '' 

I told my vision to a learned man. 

Who said : " On no celestial globe or plan 

Can those unset, unrisen stars be found. 

How might such uncomputed motions be 

Among the ordered spheres? Heaven's clock is 

wound 
To keep one time. Idle our dreams, and we, 
Blown by the wind, as the light family 
Of leaves." But still I dream, 
And still those planets seem 
Through heaven their high, unbending course to 

take ; 
And a voice cries : " Freedom and Truth are we, 
And Immortality : 

God is our sun.'' And though the morning break 
Across my soul still plays their shimmering wake. 



TO IMOGEN AT THE HARP. 

Die Geisterwelt ist nicht verschlossen : 
Dein Sinn ist zu — dein Herz ist todt. 
Auf, bade, Schiller, unverdrossen 
Die ird'sche Brust im Morgenroth ! 

Faust. 

Hast thou seen ghosts ? Hast thou at midnight 

heard 
In the wind's talking an articulate word ? 
Or art thou in the secret of the sea, 
And have the twilight woods confessed to thee ? 
So wild thy song, thy smile so faint, so far 
Thine absent eyes from eai:thly vision are. 
Thy song is done : why art thou listening ? 
Spent is the last vibration of the string 
Along the waves of sound. Oh, doth thine ear 
Pursue the ebbing chord in some fine sphere, 
Where wraiths of vanished echoes live and roam, 
And where thy thoughts, here strangered, find a 

home ? 
Teach me the path to that uncharted land ; 
Discovery's keel hath never notched its strand, 



TO IMOGEN AT THE HARP, 6 1 

No passport may unbar its sealed frontier, — 

Too far for utmost sight, for touch too near. 

Subtler than light, yet all opaque, the screen 

Which shuts us from that world, outspread between 

The shows of sense ; like as an ether thin 

Fills the vast microscopic space wherein 

The molecules of matter lie enisled. 

A world whose sound our silence is ; too wild 

Its elfin music beats, too shrill, too rare, 

To stir the slow pulse of our thicker air. 

A world whose light our darkness is ; that lies 

With its sharp edges turned toward mortal eyes, 

Like figures painted on a folded fan — 

The broken colors of some hidden plan. 

The few who but an instant's look have had 

At the spread pattern broadwise have gone mad. 

As in a high-walled oriental street 

A sudden door flies open, and a fleet 

Departing dream the thirsty traveler sees 

Of fountains leaping in the shade of trees. 

So they who once have caught the glimpse divine : 

They have but wet their lips with goblins' wine, 

And, plagued with thirst immortal, must endure 

The visions of the heavenly calenture, — 

Of springs and dewy evening meadows rave, 

While hotly round them shines the tropic wave, 



62 TO IMOGEN AT THE HARP, 

And the false islands of mirage appear, 

Uplifted from some transcendental sphere 

Far down below the blue horizon line. 

And thirst like theirs is nursed by songs like thine. 

For thou, in some crepuscular dim hour. 

When the weak umber moon had hardly power 

To cast a shadow, and a wind, half-spent, 

Creeping among the way-side bushes went, 

Hast seen a cobweb spun across the moon, 

A faint eclipse, penumbral, gone full soon. 

Yet marking on the planet's smoky ring 

A silhouette as of a living thing. 

Or on the beach making thy lonely range, 

Close upon sunset, when the light was strange 

And the low wind had meanings, thou hast known 

A presence nigh, betrayed by shadows thrown 

On the red sand from bodies out of sight ; 

Even as, by the shell of curving light 

Pared from the dark moon's edge, the eye can tell 

Where her full circle rounds invisible. 

Teach me the path into that silent land. 
Take once again the haunted wires in hand, 
And pour the strain which, waking, thou hast heard 
Whistled when night was deep by some lone bird 
Hid in the dark and dewy sycamore, — 



TO IMOGEN AT THE HARP. 63 

When thou hast risen and unbarred the door 
And walked the garden paths till night was flown, 
Listening the message sent to thee alone. 
Ah ! once again thy harp, thy voice once more, 
Fling back the refluent tide upon the shore. 
All nature grows unearthly j all things seem 
To break and waver off in shapes of dream. 
And through the chinks of matter steals the dawn 
Of skies beyond the solar road withdrawn. 
Oh, flood my soul with that pure morning- red ! 
It is the sense that 's shut, the heart that 's dead: 
All open still the world of spirits lies 
Would we but bathe us in its red sunrise. 



1 



ECCE IN DESERTO. 

The wilderness a secret keeps 

Upon whose guess I go : 
Eye hath not seen, ear hath not heard ; 

And yet I know, I know, 

Some day the viewless latch will lift, 

The door of air swing wide 
To one lost chamber of the wood 

Where those shy mysteries hide, — 

One yet unfound, receding depth, 
From which the wood-thrush sings, 

Still luring in to darker shades, 
In — in to colder springs. 

There is no wind abroad to day. 

But hark ! — the pine-tops' roar, 
That sleep and in their dreams repeat 

The music of the shore. 



ECCE IN DESERTO. 65 

What wisdom in their needles stirs ? 

What song is that they sing ? 
Those airs that search the forest's heart, 

What rumor do they bring ? 

A hushed excitement fills the gloom, 

And, in the stillness, clear 
The vireo's tell-tale warning rings : 

" ' T is near — 't is near — 't is near ! *' 

As, in the fairy-tale, more loud 

The ghostly music plays 
When, toward the enchanted bower, the prince 

Draws closer through the maze. 

Nay — nay. I track a fleeter game, 

A wilder than ye know, 
To lairs beyond the inmost haunt 

Of thrush or vireo. 

This way it passed : the scent lies fresh \ 

The ferns still lightly shake. 
Ever I follow hard upon, 

But never overtake. 

5 



66 ECCE IN DESERTO. 

To other woods the trail leads on, 
To other worlds and new, 

Where they who keep the secret here 
Will keep the promise too. 



I 



HUGH LATIMER. 

His lips amid the flame outsent 
A music strong and sweet, 

Like some unearthly instrument 
That 's played upon by heat. 

As spice-wood tough, laid on the coal, 

Sets all its perfume free, 
The incense of his hardy soul 

Rose up exceedingly. 

To open that great flower, too cold 
Were sun and vernal rain ; 

But fire has forced it to unfold, 
Nor will it shut again. 



JEANNE D'ARC. 

Past midnight long ! The moon hath set ; 

I heard the cock an hour ago. 
Still dark ! no glimpse of dawn as yet, 

Though morning winds begin to blow. 
Dear Lord, how swift the time goes by! 
There 's something in the air that rings — 
Listen ! — a whirring as of wings — 
The myriad moments as they fly. 
O fold me in thine arms, sweet night; 

Sweet pitying darkness, longer stay, 
And veil me from the cruel light 

That creeps to steal my life away. 

Lo ! even now the waning stars 

Grow pale. The matin bell doth toll: 
Prisoned like me by casement bars. 

It wakes sad echoes in my soul. 

For memories woven in the braid 
Of sound, bring back the abbey bell 
That wont to ring when twilight fell. 

Through pastures where my childhood strayed, 



JEANNE D'ARC, 69 

What time, when flocks were in the fold, 
Saint Agnes and Saint Catharine 

Looked from the darkening heavens cold, 
And wondrous Voices spake with mine. 

Slow-winding Meuse, I would that still, 

Along thy grassy valleys deep, 
Or half-way up some neighboring hill, 

I heard the bleat of simple sheep. 
It might not be : Cassandra-wise 

I caught in dreams the din of shields \ 

Far trumpets blown on tented fields 
Summoned to deeds of high emprise. 

Sweet household cheer was not for me ; 
The pleasant hum of spinning-wheel, 

And children's prattle at my knee — 
The bliss that lowly mothers feel. 

My spirit winged to bolder flights. 
Drawn skyward in ecstatic dreams — 

An eagle on the lonely heights. 

No ringdove haunting woodland streams. 

O solemn joy ! O blessed trance. 

That seized me when the drums did roll, 
And chanting priests in hood and stole 

Led on the bannered hosts of France ! 



70 JEANNE D'ARC, 

In battle winds above me blown 
— Fit sign for maiden chevalier — 

White lilies streamed, and round me shone 
Strange lights, and Voices filled my ear 

Foretelling victory, saying " Ride ! 

Ride onward, mailed in conquering might. 
God's legions muster on thy side 

To stead thee in the coming fight." 
When swords were sheathed and bows unstrungj 

What visions awed me as I kneeled. 

While down long aisles Te Deums pealed, 
And such triumphant anthems rung. 

As Miriam, on the Red Sea shore. 
Exulting to the timbrel's sound. 

Sung, when amid the loud waves' roar 
Chariot and horse and rider drowned ! 

Ay me ! 'Tis past ; the battle 's won ; 

The Warrior breaks His useless brand. 
Yet even so : His will be done 

Who holdeth victory in His hand. 
I know that ere the sun is high. 

On housetop, wall, and balcony. 

Children will clap their hands with glee, 
fo see the Witch of Orleans die; 



\ 



JEANNE D'ARC, Jl 

And women flout me in the face 
Who erst have crossed them at my name, 

When in the gazing market-place 
My flesh shall feed the hungry flame. 

'Twere fit that guns should boom my knell, 
Flags droop and funeral music roll j 

And through high minster vaults should swell 
Sad requiems for my parted soul. 

Crowned kings should kneel beside me dead: 
Cathedral saints on storied panes, 
Where daylight turns to ruby stains, 

Should shed their halos round my head. 
From nooks in arches twilight-dim. 

And niches in the pictured wall, 
Stone Christs and carven cherubim 

Should look upon my broidered pall. 

Alas ! for me nor passing bell. 

Nor priest to shrive, nor nun to pray. 

But rising smoke my death shall tell, 
And whistling flames my masses say. 

A.nd if among the jeering crowd 
Some lonely, beggared knight-at-arms 
There be, who once in war's alarms 

Hath seen me when the storm was loud. 



^2 JEANNE D'ARC. 

And followed where my banner led; 
He shall my only mourner be, 

And from his pitying eyes shall shed 
A soldier's tears for love of me. 

holy Mary, stead me then — 

A simple maid whose heart may fail : 

1 would not these grim Island men 
Should smile to see my cheek grow pale. 

And yet what fairer winding-sheet 

Than martyrs' flame ? What church-yard mould 

More consecrated dust can hold ? 
What missal claspeth words more sweet 

To dying ears, than those He spake ; 
" Blessed are they — yea, doubly blest, — 

Who suffer death for my dear sake. 
For them bright crowns and endless rest." 

The night is spent. The early gray 

Warms into sunrise in the skies ; 
The sunrise of eternal day — 

The threshold steps of paradise. 
*Tis written, " After storm comes shine ; " 

Fierce and more fierce the fires may burn, 

But as my limbs to ashes turn, 
My soul, O Lord, shall mix with Thine. 



\ 



JEANNE D'ARC, 73 

Even as yonder trembling star 
Melts into morning's golden sea, 

So, rapt through Heavenly spaces far, 
Shall this poor life be lost in Thee. 



THE LAST OF HIS PEOPLE. 

CANTO I. 

Down in the west a kingdom lay, 

Within its coasts tall cities three : 
One on a river that flowed from the south, 

One forest-bound on an inland lea, 
And one where the southern river's mouth 

Drank the salt flood of the northern sea. 
The two were fair*as bridesmaids are, 

But how more fair was Kinderlee ! — 
Their sister bride who glassed her pride 

In the pictured tide of the northern sea. 
Through all the years I mourn for thee, 
Dear mother-town, lost Kinderlee. 

How goodly were her broad church-towers 
And ancient houses steeple-high : 

Their gable peaks and chimney stacks. 
Where swallows on the wind went by 

And storks sat brooding on the thatch 
Were Babels to the burgher's eye : 
It seemed, as standing tip-toe there. 
One most could touch the roofing sky. 



THE LAST OF HIS PEOPLE. Jt^ 

There sunning on the gargoyled eaves 
The doves sat in a patient row, 

While Gretchen with the dove-Uke eyes 
Glanced through the lattice down below* 

For there in painted garden pots 

Sweet smelling herbs and colored blooms 

She tended in the window seat; 

Such sunshine filled the pleasant rooms. 

The shops were fine with webs of price, 
And on the market days and fairs 

The wooden booths and corner stalls 
Held store of town and country wares. 

The merchants sent their ventures out 
To sail beyond the rounding main : 

Out of the south in many days 

The ships came faring home again, 

Down laden to the water's edge, 

With ivory wealth and golden grain. 

Secure within the harbor bowl 

In hundred holds the freightage lay: 

Sweet figs of Smyrna, Muscat gums. 
And costly silks from far Cathay. 



y6 THE LAST OF HIS PEOPLE, 

By noon, by night, thy streets were bright, 
Gold days and silver eves in thee; 

And music filling day and night 
Made life a song in Kinderlee. 

Each hour the holy minster bells 

With soft psalms blessed the upper airs. 
The minstrels went about the streets ; 

At noonday in the fountain squares 
The maids would set their pitchers down 

To hear the Swedes with yellow hairs, 
Or dark Savoyards touch the harp 

And pipe to apes and dancing bears. 

When the round moon hung in the lift, 
And lights were out in gay bazaar, 

Adown the shadows of the street 
Some northern ballad echoed far 

From voices round the threshold stone 
Accordant to the light guitar. 

On martyrs' days and holy feasts 

What cheer the simple townsfolk made I 

How swelled along the narrow ways 
In civic pomp the plumed parade ! 



THE LAST OF HIS PEOPLE, yj 

First went the friars six and six, 

With scarlet gowns and shaven polls ; 

Above them shone the crucifix 
Where Christ hung bleeding for lost souls. 

Next stepped the red-faced trumpeters 

Winding the brazen snaky horn, 
And last the mounted men at arms 

With broidered banners high upborne. 

On either side, the open doors 

Made frames for happy groups ; down 
rolled 
From windows to the street's stone floors, 

Hung rainbow mats and cloths of gold. 

Where art thou, O my mother town ? 

The piping winds from off the sea. 
That rocked my cradle in thy walls. 

Shall never more blow over thee. 
Of all that spoke the kindly speech 

I learned to lisp beside thy knee. 
There lives not on the lonely earth 

Or man or wife or child save me. 
The tides shift over thy palace stones, 

The grass grows green on Kinderlee. 



78 THE LAST GF HIS PEOPLE. 

'T was when the days were waxing long, 
And Lent was now a fortnight old; 

When March came in with whistle shrill 

And hares were mad and mornings chill ; 
The ballads sung and stories told 

At Whitsun ales, remembered still, 

And Shrovetide ovens scarce grown cold. 



Sudden like wind a trumpet blew : 
The king of all the southern land, 

With his stealthy hosts as still as ghosts, 
Crept on to us over the desert sand. 

Seven nights had their watch-fires lit the waste, 
Where a thousand tents, like a fleet at sea, 

Seemed steering over the barren plain. 
Far off the wolves howled mournfully. 

But when the seven days were eight, 

In battle on the red frontier 
W^e met them there, and met swift fate: 

Some fell in fight, some fled in fear. 
I saw my king's gray reverend head 

Uplifted on the cruel spear 

Discrowned, with bloody hair. Thenceforth 
That grisly standard led the foe, 



THE LAST OF HIS PEOPLE. 79 

Its eyes fixed ever on the north, 
As reading all the coming woe. 

What boots it tell how Monksbridge fell, 
And Stifton chimneys leaguered long; 

How ebbed and flowed the southern tide 
Till, scarce a score of thousands strong, 

Before our eyes the wasted land, 
Behind our backs the desert sea. 

Grasping a broken, hopeless brand. 
We turned to bay in Kinderlee ? 

CANTO II. 

The Easter evening sun was low, 

The ebb went oozing out the bay. 
The shadows of the quiet masts 

Along the quiet water lay. 

In that bright evening hush, to stay 
Did seem twice sv/eet, twice hard to go: 

Yet when the wakening Easter day 
Shall feel the morning land-breeze blow. 
That breeze within our sails shall sing, 

And round our keel shall sing the sea, 
And in our wake shall toss and wave 

The beckoning flames of Kinderlee. 



80 THE LAST OF HIS PEOPLE. 

Sweet is revenge, the memory sweet 
Of our slain kin ; O, sweet to feel 

The foeman's stiffening muscles writhe 
In anguish round our smoking steel: 

Dear is this little ancient land 

And this old city by the sea; 
Yet dearer still our wives, our babes, 

The folk, the tongue of Kinderlee. 

Though the brave fear not death, they give 
Their lives that those they love may live ; 
But our lives are too few to save 
All that we die for from the grave. 

We'll bear our city in our heart 
And build it new beyond the sea ; 
For where we are our land will be, — 
There and not here is Kinderlee. 

Yet keep once more our Easter eve 
With feast and song; for we will go 

With paeans and with joyful hymns 
To Him, who from the Egyptian woe 

Exulting led his Israel forth. 

Even from the presence of the foe. 



THE LAST OF HIS PEOPLE. 8 1 

But when the Easter bells give word 
That Christ is risen, and in the east 

The dawn hangs its gray signal out ; 

Then leave the dance and leave the feast, 

And, hastening to the port, embark; 

That ere the morning land breeze die, 
Far windward left behind, our home 

May vanish 'twixt the sea and sky. 

Only a thin white cloud that crawls 

Into the sky from out the sea, 
Will show where smoke the burning walls 

Of our lost city, Kinderlee. 

In thee, fair town, we '11 leave behind 

A garrison of faithful fire. 
Thou shalt not be the victor's spoil, 

Dear city of our heart's desire. 

And now throughout the town each door 
Stood open to the warm spring night, 

And festal windows all ablaze 

Made every street an aisle of light 



82 THE LAST OF HIS PEOPLE, 

Across each threshold, where they would, 
The maskers wandered out and in. 

Low breathed the passionate soft flute, 
Trembled and wailed the violin. 

Yet in the pauses of the dance 

Each ear was listening for a token : 

The laugh would turn into a sob, 

The word begun break off unspoken ; 

And something in his partner's eye 

Told each the other's heart was broken : 

Till, as the night grew deep, a golden 

Curtain rolled across the past. 
A strange intoxication came 

And said, " Enjoy ! It is the last." 

Sweet riot filled the enfranchised blood 
That in our veins seemed turned to wine; 

The music thrilled exultingly; 

Bacchantic grew the dance and free; 
The women's eyes began to shine 

More brightly through their tears again, 

Like moonlight on the falling rain. 



THE LAST OF HIS PEOPLE, 83 

Revel so mad, so wild, so sad 

Was never, since the Assyrian king, 

While rebels stormed his outer courts, 
Held his last desperate banqueting. 

Now I through all the lighted town 

Had joined the maskers here and there ; 

Had entered many a stranger door, 

And climbed up many an unknown stair. 

For all were hosts and guests that night; 

All came and went, without, within ; 
Welcome to banquet or to dance. 

Alike were comeling, kith and kin. 

And many an unacquainted maid. 
Whose beauty to my eyes was new, 

Grown sweetly bold and unafraid. 
Gave me the kiss to partners due. 

And once I held a rosy pair 

Of palms upon the balcony, 
Where silken window curtains sighed 

As the night wind blew off the sea. 

I said, " Sweetheart, we meet to part : 
To-morrow on the estranging sea 



84 THE LAST OF HIS PEOPLE. 

You will not blush for one more kiss 
You gave me on this balcony." 

The lips I kissed were sweet with wine ; 

" Here 's no one but the moon, can tell," 
The eyes I kissed were wet with tears ; 

She whispered in my arms " Farewell." 

But now the lamps burned large and dim ; 

Muffled in yellow mist they shone ; 
The dancers seemed to wave and swim; 

Their voices took a drowsy tone. 

The music sounded from far off 

Like music that one hears in dreams. 

Narcotic grew the ball-room flowers ; 
The lustres shed unearthly gleams. 

Heavy mine eyelids grew with sleep, 
My heart forgot both joy and pain, — 

To-night, to-morrow, yesterday, — 

As though an opiate touched my brain. 

I wandered from the crowded rooms, 
And groped through darkened corridors, 

And stumbled up long staircases, 
Until I reached the upper floors; 



THE LAST OF HIS PEOPLE. 85 

And found a chamber far apart, 

Where neither Hght nor sound there came; 
And fell upon the bed and sunk 

To sleep, as sinks a dying flame. 

CANTO III, 

In weary dreams I seemed to hear 
The ring of bells and trumpets blown, 

And voices calling, and the tramp 
Of feet upon the pavement stone. 

And then I fathomed darker gulfs 

Of sleep, too deep for dreams to sound 5 

Until mine eyes unclosed and traced 
The figures on the carpet's ground, 

And idly watched a shadow vine, 
Whose leaves did tremble evermore 

Within the square of still sunshine 
That lay upon the chamber floor. 

But suddenly I started up ; 

My heart stopped — like a deadly pain 
That anodynes have put to sleep. 

My thoughts came piercing back again. 



86 THE LAST OF HIS PEOPLE. 

I tottered to the window seat: 

The port was empty, and the town 

As silent in the broad full light 

As though the midnight stars shone down. 

Far off a hundred sunlit sails 

Before the wind were running free, 

Like flocks that browsing westward go 
On the blue pasture of the sea. 

As when a mother stands beside 
Her darling's open grave, and hears 

The priest speak words of holy cheer; 
Then softly come her sobs and tears : — 

But when into the grave they lower 

The little body of her child, 
She thinks, " O never, never more, — 

My baby ! " and her grief grows wild : 

Even so my great despair was dumb, 

Until behind the rounding sea 
The last sail vanished, with its freight 

Of all that made life dear to me. 

And then my agony broke forth 

In groans and cries and hopeless prayers; 



THE LAST OF HIS PEOPLE, 8/ 

But suddenly I started up 

And hurried down the winding stairs, 

And through the halls, where still the lamps 
Burned sickly in the white sunshine, 

And flowers lay fading on the board, 
With cups half emptied of their wine. 

I ran down all the silent streets, 

And through the echoing market-place: 

No shopman in his doorway lounged, 
No window held the gossip's face. 

The dead walls answered back my shouts : 
Where the tall houses leaned together 

Floated across the strip of sky 

A white smoke, curling like a feather. 

In every house the door stood wide, 
The clocks were ticking on the wall, 

The playthings strewed the nursery floor, — 
Here lay a hat and there a shawl. 

It seemed as though the inmates had 
But stepped into the other room ; — 

Shall I not find the goodwife there. 
Or busy housemaid with her broom ? 



88 THE LAST OF HIS PEOPLE, 

Each home was with some presence warm 
Whose life was here but yesterday; 

Whose very pressure, mould and form 
Still fresh on bed or sofa lay, 

Whose image from the mirror's face 
Seemed hardly to have passed away. 

But now, as heavier plumes of smoke 
Across the windows drifting came, 

I mounted to the housetop high, 

And saw where lines of sieging flame 

Which all along the landward wall 

Our men had kindled through the town, 

With ever widening wings of smoke 

Spread to the wind, sailed slowly down. 

At moments when a fiercer gust 

The sooty curtain blew aside, 
On the plain's utmost southern edge 

In the strong sunlight I descried 

Something like steel that glittered, where 
The vanguard of the foe came on. 

Too late ! The ocean and the air 

Had snatched the prize his arms had wan. 



THE LAST OF HIS PEOPLE, 89 

At evening from the neighboring hill 
I marked their watch-fires circling far. 
The rising tide, the river's flow 
Came upward from the dark below; 

Over the ruins smouldering still 
Hung in the west the evening star, — 

A burning candle in the hand 

Of a vast form that seemed to stand 

Treading the sunset's hem, 

Ready to light me on to them 
Who in the black deep wandering are. 

O planet, let me follow; take 
Me with thee in thy shining wake ! 
Thou settest here, but risest there 
Amid the ocean's twilight, where 
Upon the deck dim figures stand, 

Whisper and weep and talk of me. 
"Whether has he been left on land, 

Or is he somewhere on the sea 
Among the vessels of the fleet ? " 
"Trust me, he is ; and we shall meet 

In port at last, if not before. 
So dry your tears, it will be sweet, 
Dear mother, sister, friends, to greet 

Our lost one at the port once more." 



90 THE LAST OF HIS PEOPLE. 

Alas ! no tongue of man can tell 

What port that far-bound navy made. 
No whaler, slaver, bark of trade, 

Cruising for strange outlandish freight 

In each remotest sound and strait 
And archipelago, hath spoken 

A single sail from Kinderlee. 

The land's last corner gives no token, 

Nor the uncommunicable sea. 

These many years I haunt the wharves 

And marts of every seaport town, 
And question sailors in the street 
For news of that long-vanished fleet, — 
The Portuguese, tattooed and brown. 
Seal-fishers, Holland skippers old, 
With queues and earrings of rough gold, 
Whose keels are thick with shells and weed 
From Indian harbors, — all in vain : 
On northern fiord or tropic main 
No lookout yet hath seen them run 
Close hauled or free, by moon or sun, 
Windward or leeward e'er again. 

Yet hope will tell how still they dwell 
Within a loftier Kinderlee, 



THE LAST OF HIS PEOPLE, 9 1 

On some green isle or some rich shore, 
Unknown, beyond the western sea. 

And when glad death shall close mine eyes, 
O Christ, though bright thy kingdom be, 

Yet ope them not in Paradise 
But in that other Kinderlee. 



COLLEGE RIMES. 



THE DARKE LADYE. 

A shadow haunts about my door, 

In midnight dreams I see 
An Afrite-woman pace the floor : — 

It is the Darke Ladye ! 

Of mournful sable is her robe : 
Her eyes like waves are rolled 

Full whitely; from her ear's black lobe 
Hangs down the red, red gold. 

The clothe-basket is in her hand, 

The tear is in her e'e : 
Her children two behind her stand 

While speaks the Darke Ladye : 

" Full thrice with round, vermilion face 
Behind the cedars black, 
The moon hath risen in her place 
On broad Quinnipiac. 

"'Full fourscore dawns have streaked the bay 
Since thou, upon thy knee. 



96 THE DARKE LAD YE. 

Didst vow the red, red gold to pay 
Unto the Darke Ladye. 

"I washed from soil and inky blots, 
Thy cuffs and eke thy shirt j 
The ^thiop changed another's spots 
And cleansed the stranger's dirt. 

"And though thy stains as scarlet were, 
With blood of strawberry. 
All snowy grew each handkercher 
Before the Darke Ladye. 

"But now, my hearth is desolate 
And on the Elm Street shore. 
The brooms are still ; my dusky mate 
Shall beat the rug no more. 

"Look on these cherubs, short but sweet; 
How hangs each curly head ! 
Their eyes are dim with tears; they eat 
The orphan's gingerbread. 

"The while thou smok'st the costly weed, 
(I see one on thy shelf) 
Thou makest widows' hearts to bleed 
Withholding of thy pelf. 



THE DARKE LAD YE. 97 

"False caitiff! didst thou not declare 
A check was on the way 
From thy far boyhood's home, and swear 
To pay me yesterday? 

^* Henceforth no soap thy sheets shall know, 
No starch thy limp wrist-band, 
And dirty towels in a row 

Shall hang on thy wash-stand." 

She 's gone, the door behind her slams ; 

Her feet descend the stair, 
And I with sulphurous loud damns 

Disturb the upper air. 

She comes at morn and dewy eve. 

She comes just after tea, 
To stand beside my door and grieve, 

That dismal Darke Ladye. 

Thrice have I sent her small, small bill 

For my dear Pa to see. 
Some happy chance bring back his check 

To quit the Darke Ladye. 



YE LAYE OF YE WOODPECKORE. 

PICUS ERYTHROCEPHALUS. 

O WHITHER goest thou, pale student 

Within the wood so fur? 
Art on the chokesome cherry bent? 

Dost seek the chestnut burr? 

PALE STUDENT. 

O it is not for the mellow chestniit 

That I so far am come, 
Nor yet for puckery cherries, but 

For Cypripediiim. 

A blossom hangs the choke-cherry 

And eke the chestnut burr, 
And thou a silly fowl must be, 

Thou red-head wood-pecker. 

PICUS ERYTHROCEPHALUS. 

Turn back, turn back, thou pale student, 

Nor in the forest go; 
There lurks beneath his bosky tent 

The deadly mosquito, 



YE LA YE OF YE WOODPECKORB, 99 

And there the wooden-chuck doth tread, 

And from the oak-tree's top 
The red, red squirrels on thy head 

The frequent acorn drop. 

PALE STUDENT. 

The wooden-chuck is next of kin 

Unto the wood-pecker: 
I fear not thine ill-boding din, 

And why should I fear her? 

What though a score of acorns drop 

And squirrels' fur be red! 
Tis not so ruddy as thy top — 

So scarlet as thy head. 

O rarely blooms the Cypripe- 

diiim upon its stalk; 
And like a torch it shines to me 

Adown the dark wood-walk. 

O joy to pluck it from the ground, 

To view the purple sac, 
To touch the sessile stigma's round — 

And shall I then turn back? 



100 YE LA YE OF YE WOODPECKORE. 



PICUS ERYTHROCEPHALUS. 

O black and shining is the bog 
That feeds the sumptuous weed, 

Nor stone is found nor bedded log 
Where foot may well proceed. 

Midmost it glimmers in the mire 
Like Jack o' Lanthorn's spark, 

Lighting with phosphorescent fire 
The green umbrageous dark. 

There while thy thirsty glances drink 

The fair and baneful plant, 
Thy shoon wdthin the ooze shall sink 

And eke thine either pant. 

PALE STUDENT. 

Oive o'er, give o'er, thou wood-peckdre ; 

The bark upon the tree 
Thou, at thy will, mayst peck and bore. 

But peck and bore not me. 

Full two long hours I Ve searched about 
And 'twould in sooth be rum. 

If I should now go back without 
The Cypripediiim. 



YE LA YE OF YE WOODPECKORE. lOI 

PICUS ERYTHROCEPHALUS. 

Farewell ! Farewell ! But this I tell 

To thee, thou pale student, 
Ere dews have fell, thou 'It rue it well 

That woodward thou didst went : 

Then whilst thou blows the drooping nose 

And wip'st the pensive eye — 
There where the sad Symplocarpus fostidus 
grows. 

Then think — O think of 1 1 

Loud flouted there that student wight 
Swich warnynge for to hear; 
"I scorn, old hen, thy threats of might, 
And eke thine ill grammere. 

"Go peck the lice (or green or red) 
That swarm the bass-wood tree, 
But wag no more thine addled head 
Nor clack thy tongue at me." 

The wood-peck turned to whet her beak, 

The student heard her drum, 
As through the wood he w^ent to seek 
The Cypripediiim. 



I02 YE LAYE OF YE WOODPECKORE. 

Alas! and for that pale student: 

The evening bell did ring, 
And down the walk the Freshmen went 

Unto the prayer-meeting; 

Upon the fence loud rose the song, 
The weak, weak tea was o^er — 

Ha! who is he that sneaks along 
Into South Middle's door? 

The mud was on his shoon, and O ! 

The briar was in his thumb, 
His staff was in his hand, but no — 

No Cypripediiim. 



A MERRY BALLAD OF THREE SOPHO- 
MORES AND A TOLL-WOMAN. 

It is a lordly sophomore, 

The thirstiest one of three, 
And he hath stopped at the toll-house door 

All under the greenwood tree. 

"Come hither, come hither, my merrymen both 
And stand on either side : 
What see ye on the toll-house wall 
By the toll-house door so wide?" 

They ha' lookit north — they ha' lookit south - 

They ha' lookit aboon the sky : 
Then up and spake the first merryman 

And thus he made reply : — 

"I ha'lookit north — I ha' lookit south — 
I ha' lookit aboon the sky. 
Yet I see naught on the toll-house wall 
Or the toll-house door thereby." 



104 ^ MERRY BALLAD, 

Then up and spake the next merryman 

With " Alack and woe betide ! 
For I've left my glass on the green, green grass 

All by the burnie's side. 

" So though I look north and though I look south, 
And though I look straight before, 
I see nothing at all on the toll-house wall 
Nor yet on the toll-house door." 

" Now shame ! now shame ! my merrymen both, 
For see ye not written here 
These words that tell of cakes to sell. 
And eke of the small, small beer? 

" * I have never a penny left in my purse — 
Never a penny but three. 
And one is brass and another is lead. 
And another is white money/ 

" But baud out your pouches o' gude green silk; 
Or the skin of the red deer fleet, 
And we'se tak' a draught of the wee sma' beer 
And a bite of the seed-cake sweet." 

He hadna rapped a rap, a rap, — 
A rap but only three, 



A MERRY BALLAD. IO5 

When out and came the toll-house dame, 
Was a grisly wight to see. 

Her cheek was yellow, her throat was lean, 
Her eyes " baith blear and blin' : " 

No Soph hath half the beard, I ween, 
That flourished on her chin. 

" A boon ! A boon ! thou toll-woman, 
A boon thou'se give to me, 
For a thirstier soul than I am one 
Lives not in Christiante. 

"I Ve swallowed the sassafras in the wood 
And the dust on the king's highway, 
And the sorrel that grows on the sandy bank, 
Till my throat is as dry as hay." 

"O seek ye of the red, red wine, 
Or seek ye of the white, 
To moisten your dainty clay withal, 

And your whistles both shrill and slight ? " 

"We seek not of the red, red wine — 
We seek not of the white : 



I06 A MERRY BALLAD. 

We seek but a draught of the small, small beer, 
Of the seed-cake only a bite." 

"Then show me the red, red gold," quo' she, 
" And show me the silver fine. 
And show me a roll of the green, green back, 
Or you 'se get no beer of mine." 

Then up and spake the first merryman, — 
By several saints he swore ; — 
" I have but an Index-check ^ in my pouch, 
And the devil a penny more." 

Then up and spake the next merr^^man — 

" And I Ve but a soda-ticket. 
And a crumpled two-cent revenue stamp 

With no gum-stickum to stick it." 

" Aroint ! — Aroint ! ye beggarly loons, 
From under my threshold tree ! 
What good to me is a revenue stamp 
Or an Index-check perdy.^ 

* Entitling the holder to one Judex to the Yale Literary MagazinCy 
prepared by "the busy L. H. B." These checks were thrown on the 
market in great numbers, and rapidly depreciated, causing a panic in 
the class only equalled by the similar distress produced by the famous 
** Finley Issue " in the class of '66. 



A MERRY BALLAD. 107 

"A soda ticket? A soda fiddle- 
Stick ! Pesky belly-wash ! 
Them folks as like it may swill sich fizz, 
In their stomachs to rmnble and swash : 

" But as for me, I *11 stick to my cider, 
And eke to the small, small beer. 
And sell it to them as have money to pay; 
But you — get out o' here ! " 

Then beerless to the dusty road 

Turned each bold Sophomore, 
While with a slam behind him closed 

The heavy toll-house door. 



A FISH STORY. 

A WHALE of great porosity 
And small specific gravity, 

Dived down with much velocity 
Beneath the sea's concavity. 

But soon the weight of water 
Squeezed in his fat immensity, 

Which varied — as it ought to — 
Inversely as his density. 

It would have moved to pity 
An Ogre or a Hessian, 

To see poor Spermaceti 

Thus suffering compression. 

The while he lay a-roaring 

In agonies gigantic, 
The lamp-oil out came pouring 

And greased the wide Atlantic. 



A FISH STORY. 109 

(Would we 'd been in the Navy, 
And cruising there ! Imagine us 

All in a sea of gravy, 
With billow oleaginous !) 

At length old million-pounder, 

Low on a bed of coral. 
Gave his last dying flounder. 

Whereto I pen this moral. 

MORAL. 

O let this tale dramatic 

Anent this whale Norwegian, 
And pressures hydrostatic 

Warn you, my young collegian, 

That down-compelling forces 

Increase as you get deeper ; 
The lower down your course is, 

The upward path 's the steeper. 



LOST LETTERS OF THE GREEK 
ALPHABET. 

Dim is my damp eye 

For thee, O Sampi : 

Lo ! here I drop a 

Tear for Koppa; 

Gone, too, art thou, 

Departed Vau; 

(Ah ! letter sweet, 

Now obsolete.) 

Ye-one-two-three 

All vanished be, 

Swallowed by Time's much-gulping sea. 



But thou, Digamma — 

Chiefly for thee 

We wail and clamour 

In threnody. 

Old Hell, thy gammer, 

Swallowed thee whole ; 



L OST LE TTERS. Ill 

Yet still thy soul 

Doth haunt this grammar — 

A ghostly V 

For whom Prof. Hadley 

Moaneth madly 

And in each dark hiatus sadly 

Listens for thee. 

Ever for thee. 



A HOLIDAY ECLOGUE. 

ABOVE. 

First Mason: 
Tink-a-link! Tink-a-link! Hear the trowels ring; 
Feel the merry breezes make the scaffold swing; 
See the skimming swallow brush us with her 

wing : — 
Go it with your hammers, boys; time us while 

we sing. 

BELOW. 

First Student: 
See the yellow sparkle of the Neckar in the 
glass, 
And through the cedar branches sparkles blue 
the sea; 
Hear the sweet piano — hear the German lass 
Sing Freuf euch des Leheiis — Oh ! ** I love, 1 
love the free ! " 

Second Student: 
I like the canary better; 

Look, how he swells his throttle ! 
He gurgles like musical water 

That dances and sings in a bottle. 



A HOLIDA Y ECLOGUE, 113 

ABOVE. 

Second Mason : 
D'ye mind the students down in the grove 

Drinking their wine and beer? 
That's an easy life they lead. 

First Mason: 
So do we up here 
When the weathercock points west 
And the look-off 's clear. 

Third Mason : 

House-top Jim's the boy for work I 

First Mason : 

True for you, my dear. 

(Whistles " T/ie Girl I Left Behind me:') 

BELOW. 

First Student : 
See the Dutchmen on those settees: 

Is n't it like the Rhine ? 
And the old church-tower up over the trees — 
Kellner ! Noch ein Stein / 

Third Student: 
I'd like to work with those masons there 

Half way up the sky. 
The air is sweet where the pigeons build, 
And the world is all in their eye. 



I i4 A HOLIDA V ECLOGUE. 

Second Student : 
But " Love is of the valley : " the Gretchen and 
the Kellner 
Haunt the cheerful levels of the lower story. 
Glory in the garret — comfort in the cellar: 
I will keep the comfort — you may take the 
glory. 

ABOVE. 

First Mason: 
Look up at the pointers : they 're drawing close 

together ; 
'Tis here we get the earliest news of sun, and 

moon, and weather; 
We can hear time's pulse a-ticking, with the 

whistling weathercock. 
Drop your mortar-boards, my lads, it's coming 

twelve o'clock. 

Third Mason : 
Oh! it's hungr}' that I am with working in the 

wind. 
But there 's a shawl and bonnet — • below there : 

do you mind? 
It 's Molly with the dinner-pail : she 's coming in 

the door. 
Faith, my belly thinks my throat is cut this half 

an hour and more. 
{The church clock strikes the noon.) 



AD lULUM ANTONIUM. 
Horace's odes : liber iv. carmen ii. 

Tony, for me to write an ode, 

And spout it from a staging 
Would be to trust in waxen wings,^ 

Or, when the winds are raging. 
To pull outside the Light-house Point 

In Charlie's paper wherry 
(Six inches and a half across ;) 

'T would be imprudent — very ! 

" Weak-winged is song ; " Why don't you get 

Some muse with pinions tougher ? — 
Some epic dominie or some 

Didactic-blank-verse buffer, 
Complacent, fat, in white cravat, 

Who, in mid-climax soaring. 
Will pause to hear his audience cheer 

And kick upon the flooring. 

^ " Ceratis ope Dasdalea 
Nititur pennis." 



Il6 AD lULUM ANTONIUM, 

Get some prize-poet who can write 

A dozen different metres. 
There's Finch; there's Duffield — Hollister 

Who does our best Phi Betas; 
There 's Edward Sill — he slings a quill 

Quite filthy (perhaps stylus 
Would sound more classical than quill ;) 

There's Rev. Crescentius Nilus ; — 

That swelling Nile^ whose annual flood 

The " Courant '' always mentions, 
Enriching drear alumni feeds 

And Delta Phi conventions. 
I name a laureate here and there ; 

You '11 doubtless think of others. 
Who did the anniversary 

(No joke on verse) at Brothers? 

These swans ^ of song I often see 

Early some autumn morning 
Fly over in the frosty sky; 

Faint sounds their leader's warning. 

* ** Monte decmrens velut amnis, imbres 

Quem super notas aluere ripas." 

* " Multa Dircaeum levat aura cycnum." 



AD lULUM ANTONIUM, 11/ 

Southward they seek the Chesapeake, 

To winter homes returning, 
Above the maple-forests red 

And brushwood swamps a-burning. 

But I, a bee^ that shuns the wind, 

By East Rock's sheltered bases 
Crawl into spurs of columbines 

In warm and sunny places, 
Humming in slender, earthy strain 

Of little cells I 'm building 
At home, and how my jacket brown 

Has one small stripe of gilding. 

Perchance on some Red Letter night 

When snow was softly heaping 
Outside upon the window-sill, 

And, o'er our senses creeping. 
The sleepy malt, the grate-fire's glow 

That tinged our pipe smoke rosy 
As evening clouds, had made us feel 

Particularly cosy, 

I've taken from my pocket's depths 
A torn and crumpled paper 

^ " Ego apis Matinae," etc 



1 1 8 AD JUL UM ANTONIUM. 

Whereon were traced some idle rhymes, 
An idler brain's light vapor; 

And if to these the Letters Red 
Listened with kind indulgence/ 

We '11 lay it to that genial malt 
And fire-light's soft effulgence. 

But when in gilt-edged album-book 

I 'm asked to write a sonnet, 
I sadly shake my head and say 

"Dear Miss, I am not on it." 
And when Dick reads me his new pome 

In twenty cantos, then ah ! 
My little chirping muse descries 

How temcis is her penna. 

* ** Si quid loquar audiendum," etc 



HIGH ISLAND. 

Pleasant it was at shut of day, 
When wind and wave had sunk away, 
To hear, as on the rocks we lay. 

The fog bell toll ; 
And grimly through the gathering night 
The horn's dull blare from Faulkner's Light, 
Snuffed out by ghostly fingers white 

That round it stole. 

Somewhere behind its curtain, soon 
The mist grew conscious of a moon : 
No more we heard the diving loon 

Scream from the spray ; 
But seated round our drift-wood fire 
Watched the red sparks rise high and higher, 
Then, wandering into night, expire 

And pass away. 

Down the dark wood, the pines among, 
A lurid glare the firelight flung; 
So for a while we talked and sung, 
And then to sleep ; 



120 HIGH ISLAND. 

And heard in dreams the light-house bell, 
As all night long in solemn swell 
The tidal waters rose and fell 
With soundings deep. 



LOTUS EATING. 

Come up once more before mine eyes, 

Sweet halcyon days, warm summer sea, 
Faint orange of the morning skies 

And dark-lined shores upon the lee I 
Touched with the sunrise, sea and sky 
All still on Memory's canvas lie : 
The scattered isles with India ink 
Dot the wide back-ground's gold and pink 
Unstirring in the Sunday calm, 

Their profile cedars, sharply drawn, 
Bold black against the flushing dawn, 
Take shape like clumps of tropic palm. 
Night shadows still the distance dim 
(Ultra-marine) where ocean's brim 
Upholdeth the horizon-rim. 

Once more in thought we seem to creep 
By lonely reefs where sea-birds scream, 

Ulysses-like, along the deep 

Borne onward in the ocean-stream. 



122 LOTUS EATING. 

The sea-floor spreadeth glassy still ; 
No breath the idle sail doth fill ; 
Our oar-blades smite the heavy seas; 
Under the world the morning breeze 
Treads with the sun the unknown ways. 

Thus steer we o'er the solemn main 

Eating the Lotus-fruit again, 
Dreaming that time forever stays, 
Singing " Where, Absence, is thy sting ! " 
Listening to hear our echoes ring 
Through the far rocks where Sirens sing. 



THE MERMAID'S GLASS. 

'T was down among the Thimble Isles, 
That strew for many " liquid miles " 
The waters of Long Island Sound : 
Our yacht lay in a cove ; around 
The rocky isles with cedars green 
And channels winding in between : 
And here a low, black reef was spread, 
And there a sunken " nigger-head '' 
Dimpled the surface of the tide. 
From one tall island's cliffy side 
We heard the shaggy goats that fed : 
The gulls wheeled screaming overhead 
Or settled in a snowy flock 
Far out upon the lonely rock 
Which, like a pillar, seemed to show 
Some drowned acropolis below. * 
Meanwhile, in the warm sea about, 
With many a plunge and jolly shout, 
Our crew enjoyed their morning bath. 
The hairy skipper in his wrath 



124 ^^^ MERMAID'S GLASS. 

Lay cursing on the gunwale's rim : 
He loved a dip but could not swim ; 
So, now and then with plank afloat 
He 'd struggle feebly round the boat 
And o'er the side climb puffing in, 
Scraping wide areas off his skin, 
Then lie and sun each hirsute limb 
Once more upon the gunwale's rim 
And shout, with curses unavailing, 
" Come out ! There 's wind : let 's do some sail- 
ing." 
A palm-leaf hat, that here and there 
Bobbed on the water, showed him where 
Some venturous swimmer outward bound 
Escaped beyond his voice's sound. 
All heedless of their skipper's call. 
One group fought for the upset yawl. 
The conqueror sat astride the keel 
And deftly pounded with his heel 
The hands that clutched his citadel. 
Which showed — at distance — like the shell 
Round which, unseen, the Naiad train 
Sport naked on the middle main. 
Myself had drifted far away, 
Meanwhile, from where the sail-boat lay, 
Till all unbroken I could hear 
The wave's low whisper in my ear, 



THE MERMAID'S GLASS, 125 

And at the level of mine eye 

The blue vibration met the sky. 

Sometimes upon my back I lay 

And watched the clouds, while I and they 

Were wafted effortless along. — 

Sudden I seemed to hear a song : 

Yet not a song, but some weird strain 

As though the inarticulate main 

Had found a voice whose human tone 

Interpreted its own dull moan; 

Its foamy hiss ; its surfy roar ; 

Its gentle lapping on the shore; 

Its noise of subterranean waves 

That grumble in the sea-cliif caves ; 

Its whish among the drifting miles 

Of gulf-wind from the Indian Isles : — 

All — all the harmonies were there 

Which ocean makes with earth or air. 

Turning I saw a sunken ledge 

Bared by the ebb, along whose edge 

The matted sea-weed dripped : thereon, 

Betwixt the dazzle of the sun 

And the blue shimmer of the sea, 

I saw — or else I seemed to see 

A mermaid, crooning a wild song, 

Combing with arm uplifted long 



126 . THE MERMAID" S GLASS. 

The hair that shed its meshes black 
Down the slope whiteness of her back. 
She held a mirror in her hand, 
Wherein she viewed sky, sea, and land, 
Her beauty's background and its frame. 
But now, as toward the rock I came, 
All suddenly across the glass 
Some startling image seemed to pass; 
For her song rose into a scream, 
Over her shoulders one swift gleam 
Of eyes unearthly fell on me. 
And, 'twdxt the flashing of the sea 
And the blind dazzle of the sun, 
I saw the rock, but thereupon 
She sat no longer 'gainst the blue ; 
Only across the reef there flew 
One s^pw-white tern and vanished too. 
But, coasting that lone island round, 
Among the slippery kelp I found 
A little oval glass that lay 
Upturned and flashing in the ray 
Of the down-looking sun. Thereto 
With scarce believing eyes I drew 
And took it captive. 

A while there 
I rested in the mermaid's lair, 



THE MERMAID'S GLASS. 12^ 

And felt the merry breeze that blew, 

And watched the sharpies as they flew, 

And snuffed the sea's breath thick with brine, 

And basked me in the sun's warm shine ; 

Then with my prize I made my way 

Once more to where the sail-boat lay. 

I kept the secret — and the glass; 

By day across its surface pass 

The transient shapes of common things 

Which chance within its oval brings. 

But when at night I strive to sound 

The darkness of its face profound, 

Again I seem to hear the breeze 

That curls the waves on summer seas; 

I see the isles with cedars green ; 

The channels winding in between; 

The coves with beaches of white sand; 

The reefs where warning spindles stand; 

And, through the multitudinous shimmer 

Of waves and sun, again the glimmer 

Of eyes unearthly falls on me, 

Deep with the mystery of the sea. 



A MEMORY. 

I came across the marsh to-night, 
And though the wind was cold, 

I stayed a moment on the bridge 
To note the paly gold 

That lingered on the darkening bay; 

The creek which ran below 
Was frozen dumb; the dreary flats 

Were overspread with snow. 

The college bell began to ring. 
And as the north wind blew 

Its distant janglings out to sea, 
I thought, dear Friend, of you; 

And how one warm September day, 
While yet the woods were green. 

We strayed across the happy hills 
And this wide marsh between. 



A MEMORY. 129 

The hay-stacks dotted here and there 

The water-meadows wide : 
The even lines of sluices black 

Were filling with the tide. 

Then this salt stream, now winter-bound, 

Fled softly through the sedge, 
Retreating from the sparkling Sound; 

And there along its edge 

We strolled, and marked the far-ofiE sloops, 

And watched the cattle graze. 
Overhead the swallows rushed in troops, 

While bright with purple haze, 

West Rock looked down the winding plain — 

Ah ! this was long ago ; 
The summer 's gone, and you are gone, 

As everything must go. 



PRESENTATION DAY, 1868. 

Their songs are done, their forms are gone, 
And Time for us hath turned the glass : 

We heed not, as we take their seats. 

How downward swift the red sands pass. 

We heed not how the cloud comes on 
That shadows all the sunny land — 

The day when heart from heart must part 
And clinging hand unlink from hand. 

What shall that Dies Irae give 

In place of that it takes away: 
How fill the time we have to live 

While youth treads downward to decay? 

Good-by, true friend; Good-by, old Yale; 

Good-by, each dear familiar spot ; 
Good-by, sweet season of our youth — 

"The golden, happy, unforgot." 



IVY ODE. 

CLASS DAY, 1869. 

When we are gone from sight and mind, 

Leaving no token here behind 

To speak for us in this loved scene, 

O, Ivy, keep our memory green ; 

And trace in thy soft, leafy line. 

The dear old name of Sixty-nine. 

When youth and Yale are far away. 
And these young heads are growing gray. 
We'll think, how on this cold stone wall 
Our Ivy climbeth strong and tall ; 
And then our hearts, like thee, shall grow 
The greener for the winter snow. 

Farewell ! Farewell ! A leaf from thee 

In after years a charm shall be 

To start the tear in eyes long dry; 

To stir the drowsy memory 

With sad, sweet thoughts of Auld Lang Syne, 

And friends we loved in Sixty-nine. 



THE NEW YALE. 

All day we hear the chisels ring, 
The windlass creak, the masons sing ; 
With every brightening moon there falls 
A longer shadow from the walls. 
We hope these rising halls may bring 
Some new event — some wished-for thing. 
We look to see that not alone 
Of mellow brick-work or of stone, 
But reared by wisdom's magic wands 
Invisible, not made with hands. 
Yet stronger than the trowel builds. 
Deep-laid by toiling scholar-guilds. 
Her corner-stone's free-masonry 
As broad as this brave century, 
Our new, regenerate Yale shall be — 
Our Yankee university. 
O let her widened portals stand 
All opening on the future's land; 
Her pointed windows one by one 
Steal color from the setting sun j 



THE NEW YALE. 133 

Her gables and her belfries high, 
Her generous chimney-stacks whereby 
The college doves shall build and fly, 
Front only toward the western sky; 
And far above her tall elm trees 
The bright vanes point the western breeze 1 
We care not that the dawn should throw 
Its gilding on our portico ; 
But rather that our natal star, 
Bright Hesper, in the twilight far 
Should beckon toward the imperial West 
Which he, our Berkeley, loved the best ; 
Whereto, his mighty line doth say, 
" The course of empire takes its way." 
For in the groves of that young land 
A lordly school his wisdom planned 
To teach new knowledge to new men. 
Fresh sciences undreamed of then. 
She comes — had come unknown before, 
Though not on " vext Bermoothe's " shore. 
Yet will she not her prophet fail — 
The new — the old — the same dear Yale. 



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